


Enough For Now

by Whreflections



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, References to Drugs, poly John with hints of future triad-ness, sherlock POV, the shipping status for this is really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 12:50:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To take on Magnussen, Sherlock knows he's taken on certain risks.  The probability that he won't make it out of Appledoor is altogether fairly great though it's alright, really, because for John and Mary's sake, it's worth it.  All the same, he's become more fond of his life than he really should be.  After all, everything ends.  </p><p>His story, it seems, is going to end in Europe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enough For Now

**Author's Note:**

> So now that I'm back in full Sherlock mode(lmao), I had about, oh five or six plot bunnies pop into my head that I was dying to write, but this had to be the first because the thing that made me cry the most about this series was the look on Sherlock's face as he watched John get smaller on that runway, looking down and thinking it would probably be the last look at John Watson he got to take. 
> 
> That killed me, so I wrote this, which is basically Sherlock!angst leading up to that moment, both before he faces Magnussen and after.

_Breathing comes in pairs_

_Except for twice_

_One begins and one’s goodbye_

_-Enough For Now, The Fray_

\-------------------------

There is a first and a last time for everything.  It’s not a sentimental observation, merely a matter of numbers, of facts.  Sherlock Holmes has, for example, smoked more cigarettes than he would care to try and remember, but the first was unique, and it is remembered.  (Just outside, left corner of the back garden, fourteen and holding his determinedly not trembling hand up to cover the light of the flame.  He choked; Mycroft rolled his eyes and reminded him to breathe.)  The last, presumably, will be similarly noteworthy, if only because after it he’s become too ill to continue.  At this point in his life at least, that’s the most optimistic circumstance for quitting he can imagine.  It’s a possibility among many, its probability low.  The future is constantly shifting. 

Sherlock cracks his old window a little wider, breathes deep of the cigarette between his lips before letting the smoke slip out, wispy as it drifts forward against tilted glass and out to dissipate into the cold. 

“Sherlock Holmes, what _have_ I told you about smoking in this house?” 

Sherlock fumbles his smoke between his fingers, sixteen again for the moment it takes for his heart to stop valiantly leaping towards his throat.  He catches the edge of the filter before it falls out the window, though he’s knocked more ash against the sill than he intended.  He brushes it off with the side of his hand, a little irrationally unsteady.  Putting it out and dropping it wouldn’t matter now; she’s already seen. (And really, he should have been paying better attention.  The fifth step still creaks; he should’ve heard it.  Her gait is distinctive, lighter than John’s and his father’s, quicker but heavier than Mary’s at this point in her pregnancy, less measured than Mycroft’s.  She is unmistakable even in her footfalls.  Just so.)  Best he can do is take one more hit before she yanks it away and crushes the life out of it. 

He expects the cuff to the back of his head, but it’s lighter than anticipated, and her hand doesn’t follow through to take the cigarette he’d raised hurriedly to his lips.  Her hand rubs between his shoulder blades instead, gentle, though he tenses under the touch.

“I’ll never understand it long as I live.  D’you boys forget all about your grandfather then, hm?”

(The cigarettes didn’t exactly kill him, not directly; that was his heart.  67.  It was the months before it that hurt her, emphysema and the constant struggle for breath that left him wheezing.  The sound is saved somewhere in his head, though he’s never gone back to it.)

Sherlock blows smoke out the cracked window, a little less demonstrative now that she’s watching.  He flicks the filter with his thumb, uncertain how to continue.  She’s never failed to disarm him before. 

“No.  I haven’t.”  He can’t speak for Mycroft, so he never tries.   His brother’s mind might in some ways be a book to him but in others, in all things that so much as border the personal, he is an enigma. 

“What about me then, Sherlock?  You think I want to watch my children suffer?”

“I’m not-“

“Not yet maybe, but in a few years-“

“For God’s sakes, it’s not a regular habit, I-“

“Neither is the rest of it, but that doesn’t mean it can’t kill you.”  Her voice trembles, there at the end.  Honestly, he wishes she’d just taken the goddamn cigarette. 

He puts it out against the glass, drops the remains, crosses his arms against the sill in a move to hide his urge to fidget, to _cover_ though he knows even partially rolled up his sleeves already cover the last two lingering marks of the needle he’s yet to lose.  Not that it matters, really, whether she sees these particular track marks- she’s seen them before and no matter his efforts to shield her, she knows too much.  He cannot lie to her, not effectively, not for long.  She may not deduce quite as well as her children but she has her areas of specialty and in those her skills are unparalleled.  There is nothing about her children that escapes her, certainly not when she has them before her eyes.    For all he knows she’s already read his not too distant drug use in Mycroft’s infuriating increase in hovering or the cup of coffee instead of tea he’d chosen to take when he came in. 

Instead of the actual truth, he tells her instead merely a thing that is true.

“I’m clean.”  At this moment in this house and for the foreseeable future, he is.   To go further, in fact, at the moment there is no drug he wants, nothing beyond where he is and maybe three or four cigarettes and a moment of utter silence to gather himself and after that John Watson in this room with him, and for tomorrow to not end in utter disaster.  Around those, no other desires fit. 

His mother’s fingers find the curls at the back of his neck, stroking.  “I know, sweetheart.  And I’m proud of you for that, I really am.  These last few months have been hard for you; I know that well enough, and I know John’s been doing his best to look out for you.  I love him for that.  But I don’t want to ask you if there’s morphine in that bag over there, do I?”

No, no she really doesn’t.  Not that it’s there for use, not really; he’s got too much at stake to even consider it.  But if he fails, if any step fails and he ends up back here, if the game changes, if-

“No, don’t; I can see you thinking it over.  There’s no good answer to that one, Sherlock; just let it be.”  Her grip changes, right shoulder, then her chin’s on his left and she’s hugging him and he’d hardly felt it coming but there it is.  (She smells like the kitchen, like sugar and cherries so he knows she’s been baking, and a hint of perfume, Chanel No.5.  She puts that on for company; this time, it’s for Mary, for John perhaps though it doesn’t feel like he should be ‘company’, not really, though can he be anything else when Sherlock’s never brought him here?) 

He’s still strung too tight, but something in his shoulders eases all the same. 

“I’m alright, mother.”

“Mm.  Yes, I can see that.”  (She has read his troubles in his coat collar, perhaps?  In its turn down, maybe, or in his lack of interest in the pie or not enough teasing of Mycroft or the fact that he hasn’t pulled John off yet to take him out into the country, to show him the places where he learned to measure the impact of the tread of boots on moss.  She is good; it could be anything.)

“I’m fine.”

She turns her face against his shoulder for a moment, the span of a long breath.  What a strange thing it must be to become shorter than your children.  Years ago she’d have tucked him against her, held him close until she was satisfied he was safe.  (Scent is, after all, the most primal sense, a powerful trigger for both emotion and memory.  To a mother, the scent of their child runs deep, beyond description.  What it once would have been he’s not sure, only knows that now it’s the smells of cigarette smoke and London air and John that cling to his collar.  Maybe a hint of cinnamon carried with him from Baker Street, from the decorations Mrs. Hudson insisted made the house smell like Christmas.  He doubts there’s anything in that mix to comfort his mother now and maybe he’s right, because one breath is all she takes.) 

She steps back then but her hand remains, lingering just over his spine.  In the glass he can see her reflection, her smile weak, eyes lined dark with lack of sleep.  Damn Mycroft; more than likely he’s said too much.  It certainly wouldn’t be the first time he’s scared her. 

“It was hard, you know.  Two years without you.” 

“The nature of-“

“I’m not talking about the why, Sherlock; all I’m saying is it was hard on us.  I never want to worry you; God knows you’ve got enough on your mind, but I wish you’d think now and then that I’m not getting any younger, and that just maybe the last bit of my life might go easier if I don’t outlive my baby?”

The first time she saw him after his return to London, she’d kissed the wounds on his face until he pulled away.  He never had the heart to tell her Mycroft had watched him receive them.  A stubborn part of him almost insists that he’s not a baby, not anymore, but that’s a response for his brother, not his mother.  To a mother, he knows, their children are always babies. 

“Given your medical history, your background as a mathematician who maintains an active mind, carrying out a life full of hobbies and with ample companionship-“

“ _Sherlock_.”

He smiles, her irritation warming in its familiarity.  “You have years yet.  You aren’t as old as all that.”

“If I was a stranger you’d cheerfully tell me just how likely I was to slip on an ice patch and break my hip.”

“I’d rather not call those odds to mind; my recent hospital stay leads me not to recommend it.” 

Her laughter is hearty, never quite the same, and he wonders as he has a thousand times how a woman with so many inconsistencies ever fell in love with a discipline so consistent as math.  She leans in again, her fingers warm against his neck as she pulls him to the side enough to kiss his cheek. 

“It’s good to have you home.”

“Mm.”  Home is Baker Street, sprawled on the couch, his violin on his chest.  At the very least, home is London.  (London, and John, however much he might remind himself that by definition, home must be a place, not a man.) 

“Will you come back down?  Your father was hoping we might all play a game, maybe watch a movie.  Pie’s almost ready.” 

It isn’t what he wants, but what choice does he have?  Stay, and have Mycroft appear to drag him bodily down the stairs?  He sighs, dramatic enough to sag his shoulders, knows she’s watching close when he hears the rustle of her arms crossing.   (She’s a little slow on it though, not sure whether she wants to be irritated or worried, half afraid of leaving him alone now that she’s talked to him, now that she’s seen him smoking up here alone in the dark.)

“No, no don’t threaten; I’m coming.” 

\----------

He’s at the window again when John opens the door at 1:35.  The house has gone just about quiet, though Sherlock can hear his father downstairs, filling stockings.  Every year he insists on it, forever Father Christmas even if they’re far too old for him to need to bother.  (Sherlock’s will have chocolate and rosin and likely a pack of cigarettes stashed in an Altoids tin, because his father fears the needle and is therefore eager to supply him with tobacco, relatively harmless to his comparison.) 

“Sorry it took a bit.  Thought I’d unpack.”

And he’d waited for Mary to sleep first.  Or, more accurately, for her to turn her face to the wall and feign it.  Sherlock breaths deep of the last of his cigarette before crushing it out, letting it flutter away to drift down to the back garden.  Before they go home, he’ll have to collect his evidence. 

John shuts the door behind him with a soft click, and the room falls quieter, darker, lit only by the lamp by Sherlock’s bed. 

“So this is your old room?”  Sherlock doesn’t answer; the question too obvious, too clearly a move to fill the space between them.  (Without turning he can imagine where John’s eyes are falling- his bed with its faded quilt so obviously handmade, the picture of Redbeard on his nightstand, the map across from his bed he’d personalized himself, bits of dirt from various parts of England taped over the places they might’ve come from.)  His footsteps cross the floor, less certain than they had been down the hall.  This time, Sherlock had been listening.  “I wasn’t sure if-“

There’s no possible end Sherlock can imagine to that sentence that he wants to hear.  (If John is about to speak of his childhood, that’s boring.  If Mary, she will have her nights soon enough; he knows John will be speaking to her tomorrow.  This one is still his.)  He turns quick, pulls John to him in a single motion.  His kiss is rough, pushy, even, but john doesn’t mind; Sherlock can feel that in the quick grip of his hands at Sherlock’s hips.  (John tastes like Crest and he’s grateful for it, a tiny lingering jolt of alpha male purring in his chest though he’s told himself a dozen times before that really, he has learned to share, learned to accept the taste of lipstick and the smell of perfume.  And he _has_ learned that, emotionally, logically.  Physically, some responses are evolutionary.  For the time being his chosen mate is a blank canvas; he cannot help but be pleased.) 

John’s lips leave his, nothing uncertain in him now that Sherlock’s gotten him started.  His kisses trail from Sherlock’s jaw to his throat, more insistent the lower he goes, teeth nipping near the juncture at his collar.  When he bites down in earnest Sherlock moans, electrified, long fingers burying deep as they can manage in John’s hair to hold him there until the skin bruises.  (He can feel John’s breath against his skin, feel the subtle twitch of his hips that comes as he inhales.  For all he claims to hate smoking, the scent of it on Sherlock’s skin always goes to his cock.  He never speaks of that particular desire, as he never speaks of the times they’ve made love while Sherlock was high, his skin on fire at John’s every touch, John cursing and never quite close enough for either of them as Sherlock cried out beneath him.  After those nights John rises from his bed unable to look in the mirror, flinches at the brush of Sherlock’s lips against his spine.  No amount of assurance can convince John he didn’t take advantage or at the very least encourage Sherlock’s self-destruction and still, weeks on, he will do it again.  If John’s appreciation for the smoke triggers similar guilt in him, he at least manages to keep it under far better control.) 

John’s tongue soothes the welling of blood under the surface of Sherlock’s skin, all warm and wet and enticing enough that Sherlock drags John’s mouth back to his.  Kissing Janine was work, each move calculated; kissing John is all pleasure, rarely planned in detail, often surprising.  His teeth graze Sherlock’s lip, questioning; Sherlock lets him in with a stroke of thumbs across his cheeks, his exhale through his nose shaky as John’s tongue lays the same deliberate claim to Sherlock’s mouth as it had to his throat. 

As the kiss tapers to brushes of lips and the occasional hint of teeth, John murmurs breathless against him. 

“I wasn’t sure I should come after you; I don’t know how much your parents-“

“They don’t know the specifics nor do they need to.”  He could hardly imagine _that_ conversation, sitting his parents down to make them understand how they had worked it out between the three of them, how John split his time down the middle as best he could, how they had wondered sometimes if down the road it might all morph into something else entirely.  For Sherlock himself before the shooting it had all been easy enough to accept- he loved John and Mary loved John; they could make it work.  After, life had grown more complicated, but she _had_ saved his life.  That counted for something.  Still, the arrangement didn’t matter a damn bit to anyone outside the three of them.  (Though it was funny, hilariously so, to hover predatory over John, to linger too long in his touches and watch Sally Donovan squirm at the _wrong_ -ness of it in her eyes.) 

Sherlock wraps an arm around John’s waist, anchoring him as closely as he can.  The press of John’s hardening cock through their trousers is enough to make Sherlock groan, flash heat sparking in his stomach at the thought of how it would feel to turn and press John to the wall just now, to shift forward until John thrusts against his thigh.  He knows from experience that if his need is strong enough, the noises he can wring from John’s throat with just the right amount of pressure are intoxicating.    

Sherlock tamps the desire down, clears the mental image to remind himself of his previous intentions.  Or attempt s to, before he feels the stir of John’s breath again, a prelude to speech.

“Even without knowing the specifics I’m fairly sure they-“

“Oh for God’s sakes.”  He nips at John’s jaw, takes half a second to revel at the catch in his breath before he presses his lips just at the shell of Johns ear.  At a half whisper his voice is pitched low, part growl, right at the tone he well knows makes John go weak.  “I guarantee you my mother knew I was fucking you the moment we came in the door so can you forget their sensibilities and _focus_.”  In one deft movement, he untucks John’s shirt from his trousers, his palm firm against the small of John’s back, fingers dipping just below the line of his belt, just enough to tease.    

“ _Christ_ , Sherlock-“

He’d have said more, Sherlock can feel it, but he steals the chance, pulls John back to him for a thorough kiss.  It’s no hardship to find John’s belt without looking; how many hundred times has he unfastened a belt now from this angle?  (Too many; not a number worth counting.  He does note, however, which belt it is- that matters.  This one opens easy, the leather old and worn supple.)  The buckle clinks in his hand as it opens, and John groans, hands fisting in Sherlock’s shirt as he jerks it up and out of his trousers.  There he hesitates a moment, nibbles at Sherlock’s lower lip while his hands hover at the hem of Sherlock’s shirt.  (He’s deciding- a move upward will take his fingers to the buttons, a slide underneath will put his hands on Sherlock’s skin.  With the tension Sherlock can still feel in John’s muscles he knows getting the shirt off quick would be John’s current first choice,  but John knows, too, that Sherlock is partial to this, to undressing each other in stages, full of kisses and panted breaths and searching hands so that by the time Sherlock’s fingers close around John’s cock for a first pull, he will already be full of enough want to arch shamelessly into the touch.  His desperation is entrancing, all the more so because Sherlock knows he can sate it.)

Unwilling to speak, Sherlock asks without asking, shifts his grip on John, nails dragging with just a little pressure up either side of his spine.    John’s hands slide underneath Sherlock’s shirt, calloused fingertips tantalizingly rough as his hands stroke across Sherlock’s ribs.  Sherlock hums his approval, a low vibration he knows John will feel against his tongue, feels the moment it registers as an increase in pressure from the hands that grope at his chest. 

There is no more talk of his family after that.  Their shoes go first, a half awkward moment of balancing and kicking and stumbling, and they come to rest just beside Sherlock’s bed after, Sherlock’s back to the wall, John pressed against his chest, the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt now half undone.  John’s trousers are next, his belt a heavy thud as it hits the floor.  In his pocket, Sherlock’s phone vibrates.  (Mycroft downstairs, or Mary on the other side of a none too thick wall.  Mycroft most likely, some scathing comment on what he’d call their appalling blatancy.  Were he the only one in the house, Sherlock just might do his damn best to make John scream.)

The truth of the text is, for the moment, unimportant.  In any case, he has no desire for Mycroft in any form to be in the room for this, not as a text, not even as a voice in his mind.  Sherlock files it away, shakes it off in a move that turns barely physical, a shiver he knows John can feel.  He starts in on the buttons of John’s shirt before he could possibly think to ask.  Before he reaches the bottom, he’s steered them to the bed and the softness of his grandmother’s quilt.  He hovers over John, his shirt gaping wide.  With his trousers still on but open he can feel John’s cock against his through the thin cotton of their pants, hard and going damp at the tip. 

For a moment, his thoughts stutter.  John’s fingers rake through his hair, grounding him, and he turns his head quick to kiss the soft inside of his wrist.  The intake of John’s breath is sharp, Sherlock hears it harsh in the silence, can feel it where their chests are pressed together.  It’s no surprise after that to feel the tug of John’s fingers at the nape of his neck, hear the near tremor in John’s voice as he murmurs, “God, come here.” 

This kiss is under John’s control, guided by the flex of his hand at Sherlock’s neck and the warm curl of his tongue, by a grind of bodies that is slow and deliberate and legs that widen just enough to embrace Sherlock’s hips more snugly between them.   (There can be no confusion as to how John wants him, not tonight.  It requires no deconstruction but Sherlock’s mind provides it for him anyway, reminds him that for such a soldier as John, the trust it would take to lead him to spread his legs so willingly is enormous.  As ever, all that John has to offer he shoves directly in the palm of Sherlock’s hand.) 

Sherlock presses down, hips rolling slow, the moan in his throat deepening as John whimpers at the pressure. 

“ _Fuck_ , Sherlock, just-“

 _Fuck me_ , he would have said, but Sherlock silences him.  He can deny John nothing, certainly not like this, and he isn’t ready, not quite.  He craves the taste of John on his tongue, salty and hot and full of need.  He makes his way down John’s chest, a trail of nips and kisses, lingering a moment just above the line of John’s pants as he reaches up to finally push  John’s shirt free.   He looks up then, across John’s chest to his eyes; whatever John sees in him, it’s enough to make him pant, his fingers twining in Sherlock’s hair. 

When his mouth closes around John’s cock, John turns his head to bite into his arm, muffling his cry.  His hands clench, and Sherlock grips at hips gone rigid with the effort of not thrusting.  (It’s been days since they shared a bed, well over a week since he’s had the pleasure of Sherlock’s mouth.  It wouldn’t take long to make him come like this, but Sherlock will be careful, take him right to the edge before he backs off.  He’ll be close, desperate, dazed enough to never notice how the grip of Sherlock’s hands on his hips is just about tight enough to bruise.) 

Still, even knowing, it’s hard to make himself stop, harder still when it’s John that pulls him away, muttering. 

“Please, I can’t- I wasn’t finished with you yet.”  The thought rises in Sherlock’s mind that they’re never done, not either of them, but he doesn’t speak.  Instead he kisses John with lips swollen from their earlier kisses and the stretch around John’s cock while their bodies grind and fold into and around each other, carries on until the need to be inside him is so great he’s already hitching John’s thigh up his side with hardly a conscious thought to it.  There’s lube in his pocket, he knows, and he half pulls back to gather the presence of mind to search for his pants but then John’s sucking Sherlock’s fingers into his mouth, and the problem is spectacularly solved. 

It’s only after he comes, teeth marking John’s shoulder to bury his sharp cry, that Sherlock realizes his shirt is still hanging off his shoulders.  For a moment, breathless, he smiles at the potential for unintentional symmetry- the first time, they didn’t manage to strip entirely, either. 

\---------

“Hey.  I know you’re awake.” 

If John knows he’s awake, technically, that should mean a verbal answer isn’t necessarily required.

His hand strokes up Sherlock’s arm, across his shoulder, over his back, all the way to the first curls at the back of his head.  He stays close, his face still half hidden against Sherlock’s neck.  “Talk to me.  You’ve been somewhere else all night.” 

“Well if I have then someone else did a spectacular job of it; you certainly didn’t seem inclined to complain.”

“Don’t do that; not here.” 

It springs to his tongue to point out that his parent’s house holds no significance for their relationship, but there are times even he knows he’s about to push too far.  He keeps to silence instead, brushes his lips against John’s hair as a means of an almost apology. 

“You’re fixated on something.  Tell me.” 

All scenarios considered, there’s a decent probability he won’t make it out of Appledoor.  Magnussen would be a fool if he wasn’t prepared for an infiltration.  It’s unlikely he’d be willing to get his hands dirty himself but a man of his stature has people for that; he has people for everything.  Even if they succeed, at best he’ll have been caught taking Mycroft’s computer to a dangerous man and while it’s likely he’ll be pardoned it’s by no means certain.  Every final act carries potential black holes but this one is riddled with them.  The odds of success, in fact, hardly seem to be in his favor at all.  Only marginally, perhaps, and only if Mycroft responds as quickly as Sherlock believes he will. 

Sherlock’s hand strokes lazily at John’s chest, a division to the words he murmurs soft as silk into John’s hair.  “It’s the fire.  Just over a year since you were attacked and I still know nothing of the source.  Without information I’m powerless; if I’m powerless to protect you and they choose to move against us again-“

“If they do, we’ll be ready for them.  It’s been awhile since I went anywhere unarmed.”  He pauses, struggling, and Sherlock almost continues for him.  “Mary too, when she goes out alone.  You know that.  We’ve talked about that.  We’re being as safe as we can, though honestly there are times I wish I could trust you with a gun.  If whoever this is decides to go after you directly-“

“I’d see them coming.”  Not that they _would_ come after him, not if he’s right.  The fire was little more than Magnussen testing a pressure point, the twist of a salted screw in an open wound.  A move like that would give him all he needed to know about Sherlock’s price.  (He learned about John in the first place from simple observation, or so Sherlock tells himself.  In this case, the path of least resistence is one he cannot take- if he learned instead from the same source that told him of Redbeard, then Mycroft willingly put John’s life in danger.  If he had, Sherlock could never speak to him again.)

“You’d see them coming from behind, with a syringe?  Which of us was in the army again, and how’d it all turn out for me?”

“Look, that’s not the point, the point is-“

“The point is you’re obsessing, and it needs to stop.  It’s not healthy, and until we know more, it’s not productive.”  John extricates himself just enough to lean on arm over Sherlock, almost facing him.  It’s so hard to tell in the dark, though he can feel the stir of John’s breath in the air between them.  He waits for Sherlock’s answer.

“You could trust me with a gun, you know.”

“No, I couldn’t.”

“It’s not as if I-“

“I can’t imagine any circumstance short of an utter emergency that would make me inclined to set you loose in London with a gun, Sherlock, no.”  Sherlock can hear the amusement in his voice now, hear the softening.  He punctuates his teasing with a kiss to Sherlock’s chest, clearly aimed at the bullet wound though it falls just to the left.  “We’ll be alright.” 

John’s lips brush against his jaw, seeking a kiss, and Sherlock turns to meet him.  It’s chaste, short, and still it’s enough to spur him forward, his arm snaking around John to pull him to lay against Sherlock’s chest like he had before they’d started this conversation.  John acquiesces but he isn’t done talking, Sherlock knows.  The silence is too expectant, the rise and fall of John’s chest still indicative of the man being well awake and aware. 

Sherlock tilts his head toward the ceiling, eyes closed as he whispers.  “You should sleep.  Christmas morning starts early for my mother.  We have to be up in time for her to start breakfast.”

“Breakfast before presents?”

“After, but she has to have time to cook it, which means presents have to be done early enough for her to do so in time to eat at what she considers a decent hour, early enough that she can start on Christmas dinner soon after.”

John chuckles, a subtle vibration against Sherlock’s shoulder.  “She’s got it down to a science, has she?”

“You’ve no idea.”

John’s arm drapes comfortably across his waist, welcoming in its heaviness.  His fingers skim restlessly against Sherlock’s spine, just enough pressure not to itch.  “You should sleep, too, then.  Just a little.”  He’s learned well enough not to ask for more than that, wearily accustomed to the way Sherlock runs his body ragged. 

At the moment, his mind feels too busy for even a few moments, too full of worry and plans, too preoccupied with the distraction of John in his arms, warm and pliant and safe.  Still, sleeping next to John is a pleasure of its own, and with all they face tomorrow it could only do him good to have his freshest eyes.  Sherlock dips his head, feels out his position slowly until he can press a kiss to John’s temple. 

“If I can.”

“Good.”  Finally, the word is heavy with sleep.  They’ve certainly had a long enough day; he _should_ be exhausted.  “ ‘s no good worrying about the fire just now.”

“I know.”

“You’ll figure it out.”

“I know.” 

“I love you.”

 _I know_.  God it’d be easy; all but handed to him.  John doesn’t expect him to say it, could hardly expect anything less with all he knows.  For him those words are easy; for Sherlock they’re still foreign, though ever since he came back from Europe he’s been learning their taste.  It’s gotten easier, here and there, and he’s worked them over in his throat a dozen more times than they’ve managed to come out because he _knows_ John craves it; he’s seen it in his eyes, felt it in the grip of his arms there at wedding in front of absolutely everyone.  To Sherlock the prospect always seemed a declaration of the obvious, but if it does John good to hear it, isn’t that the point?

And still he shouldn’t, shouldn’t _because_ it’s new, because John is still taking note of each occurrence.  If he answers it won’t go unnoticed and John will have the sense to worry all over again, but then-

Probabilities.  With that in mind, he takes the measured risk.

“I love you, John.” 

(John will make it five seconds, maybe a bit more if he’s as sleepy as all that.)

At seven seconds, John stirs against him.  “Sherlock,-“

“You suggested we sleep; did you plan to actually let me?”

It takes a full twenty minutes for John to fall asleep.  Two hours later, Sherlock joins him. 

\---------

They don’t make him wear handcuffs; not here.  It’s a simple matter of capabilities, easily deduced.  If he made it out of his cell(and he couldn’t; he’s contemplated), where would he go?  Every hall is guarded in multiples, heavy boots darkening the floor every few feet.  In this place where they held Moriarty, where they hold everyone who must disappear, typical prison law is replaced by laws all its own, laws he knows little of directly.  (Even so, he’s deduced much.  He knows torture goes on here, knew it before the soundproof walls told him so.  The soundproof walls, and the blood.  As many times as the must have washed this cell, still he found the remnants, dried dark into a shaky etching of _Sherlock_ into the bottom corner of one wall.)

So far as prisons go, it really isn’t all that bad.  He’d have told John that if he’d come and maybe John would have believed it.  Either way it’d have been good to hear his voice, but Mycroft could arrange one visit for him, just one. 

Sherlock reaches through the slit in his door and takes Mary’s offered hands, a little awkward with the constricted space but a relief all the same.  He mentions the lack handcuffs and her smile reaches her eyes; she has been in similar prisons.  She understands. 

Pleasantries over, he focuses.  “How is he?” 

She squeezes his hands so tight his knuckles hurt.  “Oh, Sherlock.  Let’s not waste time with that, alright?  Not something you know the answer to.”

Quite right.  At least, once he’d have known it was.  Sometimes, here and there, sentiment it seems has begun to get the better of him.  It makes sense, really.  After all, he’s always known love was a powerful motivator; it’s why he feared it. 

“Mycroft managed to alter my sentence.  Europe.”  Six months, and Sherlock has heard the wonder in the voices of the others, the whispers as to why his brother of all people would chose death for him over life in the system.  For that mercy, Sherlock could kiss him.  He could not spend his life in a place like this, not even for John’s sake. 

“Europe.  How long, then?”  God, he loves her.  Her eyes shine with tears he knows she doesn’t want, and still her hands are rock steady. 

“Six months.  A bit more if I’m clever.”

“Well, I’ll put it down at eight then.”

They laugh together at that, quick and soft.  The door at the end of the hall slams, and Sherlock almost jumps.  He’s not sure how long Mycroft bought him, but it can’t be long. 

“After the baby’s born-“

“No.”

“Don’t be stupid; I know what I’m doing.  I can come for you, and-“

“And when you get caught like we both know there’s always a chance you can, John’s left alone with a child, facing the loss of the people he loves the most; would you really risk that?” 

Her tears slip free.  She makes no move to wipe them away, only holds on, and studies him.  “So what am I here for then?  If I can’t come for you then you should’ve let John-“

“You’re here because I need you to do something else I know you’re very good at- I need you to lie to him for me, and he’s got to believe you.  You tell him you have contacts or methods or anything you please but you pretend to keep tabs on me and you do it well, make up a few sightings here and there to makes him smile but so long as he lives don’t ever let him know I didn’t outlive him.  Can you do that?” 

“It’s not what he’d want.”

“Would knowing make him feel better?  How much good do you think it would do him; how much time do you think he’d spend picturing my death?  Do you want that for him?  D’you think he can stand to do it again?  Only this time it’s worse, this time he blames himself.”  Not that he should, not for a moment.  Still, that was John all over.  (The last time Harry’d gotten herself sent to the hospital with alcohol poisoning, John had woken shaken from the nightmares for weeks.  All of that for Harry, who he loved and hated and hardly saw here and there.  Mary hadn’t even witnessed the early stages of John’s grief after the incident at Bart’s, and still the stories she’d told him had turned him cold.) 

“I didn’t say I didn’t agree with you, Sherlock.  I said it isn’t what he’d want.  I never said I wouldn’t do it.” 

Sherlock slides his hands forward until his wrists ache at the stretch, shifts his grip on Mary’s hands to pull her just a touch closer.  “Promise me.”

“Yes, yes alright.  I promise.  I promise.” 

She’s crying in earnest, unashamed, and still her voice is strong.  Seeing her like this, it’s easy to remember why when he considered the future before, loving her had begun to hover as so strong a prospect.  (A few more months, he’d thought, maybe longer.  Maybe never, but that was unlikely.  They fit too well for that.  Looking at her now his chest aches, his throat tightens, and he rules it out.  He has his answer, but now wouldn’t be the time to give it to her.  One burden is enough.  Besides, he can read everything she might say in the grip bruising his fingers.  He has no need for words.) 

Because his time is almost up, he asks again, softer.

“Mary.  How is he?”  (Answers flit through her head, half a dozen it seems by the blink of her eyes and the times she licks her lips, mouth partially falling open before she reigns it in.) 

“If he’s away from you for any length of time, he starts dreaming about the war again.  I can’t stop it.  It’s just you.  I don’t know how to-“

Neither does he, but it doesn’t matter, because the guard’s there and her hands are gone from his.  They say goodbye with their eyes, better perhaps than they could have with words.  Sherlock pulls his hands back through, flexes his cramped fingers.  They burn; his eyes burn with them.  A punch to the wall takes something of the tingle out of his knuckles, though it splits them, leaves the wall streaked with little lines of red that blur until he stops to rest, leaning against it, breathing. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> My original version of this fic in my head was an AU in which Sherlock DID actually go to Europe and die, and it ended with a phone call to Mary instead of this prison visit. I damn near cried every time I contemplated that, however, so I decided that crossed the line of how depressing I could bear to write this and I did this instead, lol Honestly, now that it's done, I think I like this better anyway.


End file.
